


Where You Wanna Be

by Pidonyx



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Greatest Showman AU, I don’t feel guilty abt this tho bcs the whole movie is pure fiction, bastard man, big yikes!, but i digress, featuring me Super Late to the party!, from reading this you really don’t get a grasp on just how much I dislike 76, i really don’t like him, if they were going to make up everything, oh and this is WILDLY ooc oh my god, oh it’s gay tho so it has that going for it, oh yeah we’re doing That(tm), on that note tho WHY didn’t they just make an original film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 20:13:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18999712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pidonyx/pseuds/Pidonyx
Summary: Angela Ziegler has everything she’s ever wanted. Almost. When she’s offered the chance to work for the Greatest Show on Earth, she can hardly pass that up.•It’s a Greatest Showman AU. Surprise.





	Where You Wanna Be

**Author's Note:**

> oh my god, so. this Thing has been in my drafts since January of 2018 and at this point I’ve toyed with it enough I’m just saying screw it here you go. I kept trying to fix it for so long because I felt like if I was going to do something this Genuinely Cringey I should at least do it well but this is destined to be incredibly cursed so I’m just Done! I’ve had it! Here you go!
> 
> Edited pretty much completely by me because I was too ashamed to let anyone see that I had actually written a fic for this. Please feel free to let me know if you see any errors, as per usual.
> 
> Title is from, what else, “The Greatest Show” from the soundtrack of the god damn movie

Angela Ziegler tugged her woolen peacoat tighter around her waist, watching her breath billow in milky clouds towards the star-sprinkled sky. The cool night air tingled in her lungs, and she felt clearheaded for the first time in months, headache that she’d been nursing all evening finally fading. The noises of the city, of people and horses traversing the stone streets, faded into the background, and she sighed. The hoops of her skirts bunched around the lamppost she was leaning against, digging into her legs, and she thought longingly of getting home and removing them — but she couldn’t, not until she had dealt with every last person leaving the theater, and redirecting every single one who wanted their money back. She breathed a deep breath, pushing thoughts of a warm bed and a night’s rest to the back of her mind.

 

A sharp staccato of footsteps shook Angela from her thoughts, and she looked up to see a man approaching. He was tall, with blonde hair illuminated dimly by the watery lamplight, and sharp Roman features softened only by a tiredness around his mouth and eyes, and, most surprisingly, he was familiar — though not familiar as in “someone she had met personally”, but familiar as in “seen in the newspaper recently”.

 

Angela stood straighter from where she had slumped against the streetlamp, yanking her coat tighter again and trying not to frown outright. “Refunds are available at the desk, sir. I’m not the one to talk to.”

 

The man smiled, offering her a hand. She shook it warily. “I’m not looking for a refund, Miss Ziegler. I’m Jack Morrison.”

 

She raised an eyebrow flatly. “I know. I’ve seen you in the papers. Your show has caused quite a stir in Manhattan. And, as I’ve seen it, people tend to leave yours a lot happier than they leave mine.” She spared a rueful glance for the towering white marble monolith of a theater behind her before sighing and turning her gaze back to the man in front of her. “I’m not ashamed to say I’m impressed.”

 

Morrison’s smile widened marginally, and he adjusted the silk top hat upon his head (finely made, she noted. His “circus” truly must be drawing in a fair amount of money). “As a matter of fact, my show is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”

 

Angela shrugged deeper into her outer garments, turning to walk away. “I don’t see how it concerns me.”

 

The ringmaster snagged her arm. “Wait.”

 

Angela turned, giving him an unimpressed deadpan. He sighed, rubbing at his face. “Look — Just — can I buy you a drink?”

 

*

 

Angela pushed her glass away, pushing her fingertips to her temple to try and dissuade the headache that was steadfastly returning. “You want me to do  _what_ ?”

 

Jack Morrison’s eyes were alight. “You know how to appeal to the elite. Reel them in. That’s what my show needs.” He motioned for the bartender, scooping up the bottle that was slid towards them across the slightly scratched and sticky dark wood of the bar surface, pouring two generous servings into their glasses. 

 

Angela took the one that was pushed back towards her, running the edge of her forefinger along the slightly uneven rim before tossing it back, the whiskey burning her throat. She had already had multiple drinks at the theater, and this one joined the rest in making the room hazy around the edges. “The upper class are just about the last people I would ever invite to a show that was intended to excite. You wouldn’t even want to be around them; I’ve never interacted with a more boring crowd in my life. Sometimes even I’d prefer to get away.”

 

Morrison slapped his glass back onto the bar with a  _thunk_ . “So join the circus. I can promise you that my people are anything but  _boring_ .”

 

Angela spluttered. “I can’t just run away on a whim to join some mad venture!” She took her refilled glass absentmindedly and downed it in one gulp. “That’s not how it works.”

 

“Why not?” Morrison was watching her sharply. He refilled their glasses again. “You said it yourself: you want to get away. Sure, it’s a gamble, but that’s what makes it an adventure.”

 

Angela shook her head, trying to shake away the (irrational, irresponsible, unhelpful) parts of her brain telling her to  ‘ _just do it, say yes_ ’  and taking a large swallow from her drink .  “I’m sorry, Mr. Morrison, but I can’t take you up on your offer. I’d lose everything, I’d lose my inheritance, and  frankly , I quite like the life I have.”

 

Morrison didn’t respond to that, merely giving her a politely skeptical — and completely inflammatory — look and refilling their glasses again. Angela bristled. “I do! I like my life! I’m perfectly happy, I - I have an invitation to every event, every party, I have money! I’m doing just  fine , thank you, without ditching everything I’ve already got for some wild half-wit scheme!”

 

Her voice had risen unconsciously and she’d somehow gotten to her feet, but Morrison just calmly slid her glass over to her. She ignored it, turning on her heel and striding over to where her coat hung by the door, heels clacking on the thick wooden floorboards. 

 

As she was sliding her arms into the sleeves, cursing under her breath as the wool caught on the shoulder of her dress, Morrison spoke up. She didn’t turn around, but paused in her motions to listen. “You would have the space to live. You would be allowed to laugh, to enjoy yourself, to have fun. Pardon me saying it, but I know you’re unhappy where you are. My circus could change that, I believe. To me, that seems a good deal. But I’ll leave that up to you.”

 

Angela hesitated, halfway to the door, halfway through leaving. The alcohol was a warm buzz at the base of her skull, and the encouraging whispers she had brushed away earlier were back, goading her, pushing her towards the edge. The rational part of her mind seemed a lot quieter all of a sudden, and Angela could feel her lips tugging, against her will, into a smile. It was a bad idea. A terrible one . And it was a risk. 

 

She was balanced on the tip of a fulcrum, and whatever she chose would have massive ramifications. Even if she chose to go to the circus. Especially if  she chose the circus.

 

She turned around slowly. “It’s intriguing,” she started, carefully pulling off her coat and placing it back on its hook, dragging her hand down the thick green fabric of its surface. “But becoming part of your ‘circus’ would be of great cost to me, and I’d need some kind of incentive. So.” She turned, walked crisply across the room, and sat back down at the bar, folding her hands, and taking a breath, like she was about to take a leap into a deep body of water. She tilted her head to look Jack Morrison straight in the eye. “What percentage of the show, exactly, would I be taking?”

 

Morrison grinned. The tender, who had since started to clean up the bar, pulled the bottle of whiskey and a row of glasses back out from underneath. “Well, fair enough. I could give you...ah...seven percent. What do you say?”

 

That drew a disbelieving laugh from Angela, who leant forward, scoffing. “I wasn’t born this morning, sir. Let’s start at eighteen, how about that?”

 

Morrison laughed as well. “Might as well take all of my profits and leave me with nothing.” He turned back to his drink, to all appearances very interested in the copper color of the whiskey in his glass.

 

So that was how he was going to play it. Angela tapped a nail on the themahogany counter. “Fifteen.”

 

“Eight.”

 

Angela raised an eyebrow. “Twelve.”

 

“I could swing nine.”

 

“ Ten . And that’s my final offer, so I’d take a moment to think about it if I were you,” Angela said coolly, swirling the last remaining sips of alcohol in her slightly chipped cup.

 

Morrison looked at her appraisingly for a minute, then raised his glass to her. 

 

When they both had drained their cups, Morrison reached into his jacket, only to make a show of searching for his wallet. Angela resisted the urge to roll her eyes, maintaining steady eye contact as she tossed a wad of her own money onto the bar. She held out her hand. “Sir. You have yourself a junior partner.”

 

Morrison shook. “More like ‘overpaid apprentice’.” But he was smiling, and Angela got the feeling that if she played her cards right, he wouldn’t be too bad to work for.

 

She turned and strode towards the door to retrieve her coat, shaking it out and pulling it on. She looked over her shoulder as she pushed open the door, offering her own smile. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you soon then.”

 

He tipped his hat to her. “Bright and early tomorrow, if you can make it.”

 

She nodded once, then swept out, letting the door swing shut behind her before she had time to be afraid of what she had done.

 

*

 

The circus was nothing like what Angela had been expecting. She had been expecting the people — even so, her first minutes in the building had her trying not to stare unfairly and stumbling away from exotic animals of all shapes and sizes, including a snake wrapped around a woman’s neck and shoulders like a mottled shawl and an enormous lion that looked up as she passed but otherwise stayed still and allowed the young girl brushing its coat to continue her work. What she hadn’t been expecting was for all of them to act like  family . Despite the fact that they were hurriedly preparing for the consecutive acts of a show already in progress — one that she’d arrived in the middle of, thus confining her to stick by Morrison (who hadn’t been able to spare more than a few words for her given what had been going on besides, “come with me, I’ll introduce you to people as we go”— everyone they passed waved, or exchanged a few words with Morrison, or gave a nod. He threw out names as they went along, pointing to their owners. 

 

One of the young horse handlers (“that’s Hana, she’s marvelous on horseback”) helped the knife thrower (“Amélie, best aim I’ve ever seen”) clasp up the back of her leotard, chatting with a smile on her face, while a young man in a jumpsuit (“Genji is one of our acrobats, you’ll probably see him later”) assisted a dancer (“Satya is marvelous, just wait for her act”) in detangling a stubborn knot in her hair. Though Angela only caught a glimpse of all that was happening as Morrison ushered her along, the entire atmosphere was friendly and familiar. A discomforting sense of isolation overtook her, and she stayed right at his heel, feeling like an outsider. Already the scent of sawdust and the overwhelm of all the new faces and names was starting to make her feel tired.

 

Morrison hurried up the wooden stairs hugging the wall next to the curtained ring, giving a nod to a young woman—who gave him a two fingered salute and bounced down the remaining steps — and almost leapt to the last landing, brushing through another thick velvet curtain at the top. Angela followed suit, bursting out on to an elevated catwalk that overlooked the ring below. 

 

The crowds cheered from shadowy bandstands, and bright lights caught on vibrant colors and gold leaf, and stained every surface with otherworldly hues. It was so unlike anything she had ever seen that for a moment, Angela could only stare, catching her breath. Noises seemed muffled from their elevation, and for a second, Angela saw the appeal of the circus crystal clear.

 

When she lifted her head from the hazy, alien view below, her gaze immediately collided with the prettiest pair of eyes she could ever remember seeing. Startled, she froze, afraid — though she wasn’t sure why — to blink. The eyes met her unflinchingly, and the look in them was so intense that she almost took a step back. They were brown, deep, and when they caught the reflections of the spotlights little flecks of gold flashed like fire. Scrolls of ink, healed to a deep charcoal, curved under the left eye. By the time Angela was able to drag her own eyes away from the ones in front of her, she only got a brief impression of a straight nose, high cheekbones, and warm brown complexion before time sped up and the woman was swinging away, catching the hands of her partner and soaring towards the other side of the building.

 

Angela swallowed, mouth dry, and tried to ask Morrison a question, though it came out so softly that—through the noise and raucous atmosphere of the circus, which came back in a in a rush of sound—only she could hear it. 

 

_ “ Who is that? ” _

 

*

 

The show ended and Angela stumbled down the stairwell after Morrison, lost in her own thoughts and not paying attention to really where they were going until Morrison said, “Angela, you haven’t met our trapeze artists, have you?”

 

Angela blinked. The acrobats from the trapeze were standing in front of her, a man and a woman, still wearing their stage costumes, all purple glitter and silk.

 

The man gave her an easy smile, leaning forward to shake her hand. He didn’t, honestly, look like someone who should be elegantly flipping through the air. His hair was scruffy, he had a full beard, and despite the fact that the show had ended mere minutes ago, he had a cigar between his teeth, already lit. “Jesse McCree. Just call me McCree. This is my sister, Fareeha.”

 

“Angela Ziegler.” She could feel herself smiling automatically, and McCree’s smile brightened.

 

Fareeha gave her a searching look, tilting her head slightly. When Angela turned to look at her directly, the blurry impression from the edge of the catwalk solidified as Angela got a proper look at her. Fareeha had dark hair, tucked up into a twist for the show, her bangs a curled cascade over her forehead. Her skin was warm brown, a few small freckles highlighting the edge of high cheekbones and a cut jawline. The bridge of her nose was wrinkled in thought, and her eyes, no less piercing without the glare of the lights, were fixed on Angela. She crossed her arms across her chest, shoulders tilting back. “And what is your act, Miss Ziegler?” There was the slightest hint of an accent there, catching on the “r”s, and Angela could feel the back of her neck grow hot.

 

Catching her gaze, Angela hesitated. “I don’t have an act,” she said, finally, uncertainly. Fareeha’s searching eyes roved over her face, and Angela couldn’t help feeling a bit like she was confessing to a crime she didn’t know she had committed. 

 

Then, Fareeha’s lips turned up into a small smile, eyes brightening a fraction. 

 

“Everyone’s got an act.” 

 

Clasping her brother’s shoulder briefly, she walked away from the group, past Angela and towards the living quarters and changing rooms further backstage. Angela turned just in time to see her vanish around a corner, the end of the long tulle wrap she was wearing flicking out of sight behind her.

 

Struggling to pick her jaw up from where it had fallen slightly slack, Angela barely registered that another man had arrived and was speaking lowly and urgently with Morrison. 

 

She started when Morrison called her name, turning to see him gesture for her to follow before moving briskly towards a side door in the building. 

 

She moved after him, casting a glance at McCree, who didn’t say anything, but raised both eyebrows at her, taking a drag of his cigar and sauntering after his sister.

 

*

 

Everyone was already gathered in the backstage when Angela walked in, and though they seemed absorbed in a newspaper Morrison — at the center of the mass — had pressed to the worn surface of supply boxes, a few of the performers looked up and waved to her, beaming. Grinning back, Angela hurried across the space, kicking up dust and straw in her wake, creating flurries in the streams of sunlight pouring through the high-up windows in the brick.

 

She entered earshot just in time to hear Fareeha ask mildly, “Whatever happened to thriving off controversy?”

 

Morrison seemed to sort of scramble for an answer for a few seconds, hands getisculating at nothing, before he noticed Angela at the edge of the crowd and stalked towards her, holding up the newspaper as he went. As the page in question came into view, Angela suddenly understood what was happening. The words  _Morrison Circus draws Crowds of Protestors_ in a bold, thick font headline the cover story. “Angela, do you have any thoughts on this?”

 

A perfect segue for what she had come to talk to him about. She smiled, trying not to look too pleased, reaching into the pocket of her peacoat. “As a matter of fact, I do.” She pulled out a creamy envelope, sealed with cherry-red wax, and held it out to Morrison. 

 

He took it, flipped it open, and began to read aloud: “The Master of the Household has it in command of the Queen to invite Mr. John Morrison and his theatrical troupe to a reception at...Buckingham Palace.” As he read, his face underwent a stunning series of what seemed like every emotion in the human retinue before settling on ‘stunned’.

 

His mouth opened, like he was going to say something else, then closed, then opened again. He looked like someone had just punched him in the face, then handed him a check for five thousand dollars. 

 

Someone else stepped out of the crowd, putting a hand on Morrison’s shoulder and speaking what everyone in the room was thinking: “ The  Queen Victoria — is this real?” They looked at each other, having a short, silent conversation before looking back to Angela expectantly.

 

Angela beamed at Gabriel, allowing herself to feel a little pleased with her accomplishment. “Well, I had to pull a few strings. But yes. It is.” 

 

The circus burst into delighted mumbles and murmurings, smiles breaking out across the room — until Fareeha stood up, tightening the embroidered shawl wrapped around her shoulders and meeting Angela’s eyes with flinty steadiness. Her expression was neutral, but her tone held an edge.

 

“Are we  _all_   invited?”

 

Smiles around the room vanished like dew in sunlight. The challenge in her tone was unmistakable, but to her merit Angela only blinked for a second before returning Fareeha’s stare with tacit acceptance. 

 

Raising her voice so that everyone could hear (not that she needed to, as the room had gone so deathly silent at Fareeha’s question that you could have heard a single strand of hay being shuffled on the floor), she said, “I guess I’ll just have to tell the Queen that either we all go...” she took a deep breath. “...Or none of us will.”

 

It was as if a switch had been flipped, and the joy and heightened excitement were back with fervor. Angela’s eyes were still on Fareeha, though, whose entire demeanor had warmed instantly, shining radiant in the brilliant smile she flashed her, and Angela could feel her heart jump into her throat even as Fareeha broke eye contact to nudge her brother and whisper something to him. 

 

Seeing the entire circus, vibrant and electric, alive with joy, brought an echo of Fareeha’s smile to Angela’s face. In that room, surrounded by people who actually wanted her there, who reached for her wrist to tug her into a conversation and smile, at her, for something she had done, for the first time, she didn’t question her place in it.

 

*

 

The reception itself, in the grand ballroom of Buckingham Palace, was, in Angela’s informed opinion, awful. It was a clone of every dull, high-society party Angela had ever been to, save for the disaster of an introduction. During that few minutes alone, Angela had gone from white to ashen to green consecutively and had only just stopped herself from passing out right there in front of the queen herself, and the entire room of people. The uncomfortable laughter that followed had done no better in soothing her shattered nerves.

 

And that had been the highlight of the evening.

 

She was nursing a glass of champagne, realizing quietly in her solitary reflection that it was the first time she had touched a drink since joining the circus. Goaded by the alcohol in her blood, she was staring rather unsubtley across the room at where Fareeha stood, naturally, by her brother, saying something quietly into his ear. The lamplight of the room was warm and gold, reflecting on the polished black and white marble of the room. Everything was fuzzy slightly around the perimeter of her vision, probably from the drink, but her gaze still caught on every movement of the woman standing slightly in shadow, copper highlighting the curve of her shoulder, the edges of the short cape draped over her shoulders, brightening her dark hair into a halo, when she was unceremoniously — or ceremoniously, rather, because it was a fanfare that did it — yanked out of any private thought by the arrival of an esteemed guest of the queen: a “your Majesty, Miss Moira O’Deorain”.

 

Ah.

 

Morrison, suddenly at her elbow, nudged her slightly, and she only just managed to keep herself from jumping out of her skin. “Who’s that?”

 

Angela gave a slight scoff of surprise. “The opera singer? She’s the most famous performer in all of Europe. Sold out the Scala a dozen times, not to mention the French Opera. I’ve met her exactly once — out of country trip for one of my plays that she came to, I guess — and didn’t enjoy it in the slightest.” That was an understatement.

 

“Singer, huh?” Morrison had a gleam in his eye that Angela knew only spelled trouble, and then he was taking her by the arm and leading her across the room.

 

“What are you doing?!” Angela hissed out of the side of her mouth, trying not to cause a scene while simultaneously trying to extract the silk sleeve of her (very expensive) gown from his iron grip.

 

Morrison’s expression was confident, smile serene. He kept his eyes fixed across the room on his target, and his tone was completely, moronically matter-of-fact when he said, “I’m following you so you can introduce me.”

 

“Excuse me  -?” Angela managed to squeak out before they were in front of Miss O’Deorain, and she was turning to look at them with a chilly glance down her nose (though she really didn’t have to, because she towered over Angela and Morrison both). She was tall, thin, and sharp on all sides, from her cut cheekbones to her elegant features to her eyes — one brown, one blue, which settled on the two of them with the air of an apex predator. Her dark red hair was slicked back, wisps framing her face in a way that only seemed to make her appear more pale and angular. She was exactly as Angela remembered her from their brief encounter, down to the snakelike way she moved as she turned fully to give the both of them a once-over, mouth pinching at the side.

 

Angela pulled out her polite, people-pleaser smile with practiced ease as she extended a hand. “Miss O’Deorain. My name is Angela Ziegler, I don’t know if you recall but we met once before. This is my associate, John Morrison.”

 

Moira gave her only a single, cold glance before turning her attention to Morrison, extending her hand almost imperiously. Morrison took it, kissing the top with seamless propriety. “Miss O’Deorain. The pleasure is mine.”

 

Moira O’Deorain raised one arched eyebrow, lips curling into a wry smile. “Of course. You are the American. I believe I may recall hearing about you.” Her voice was soft and elegant with a cultured clip. 

 

Morrison smiled in probably as charming a manner he could manage, dipping his head in acknowledgment. “Well, if you’ve heard of me all the way over here, then I must be doing something right.”

 

Moira’s smile widened, though not in a pleasant way. “On that, you are quite wrong.”

 

Morrison smiled again, though there was a hint more of a grimace in it this time. He laughed, and fortunately, Angela believed she was the only one that caught the frustrated note in it as he replied. “Well, what do they say? ‘In the world of publicity, there’s barely a difference?’”

 

Moira laughed as well, though it was a short, amused thing. “Oh really? Do they say that? No, I think those are the words of a scoundrel, Mr. Morrison.” Her eyes glinted slightly as she said it, and Angela had to resist the urge to snap her eyes between the two of them like she was observing a ping-pong match. The conversation was as back and forth as one.

 

“A showman, Miss O’Deorain, just a showman,” Morrison countered, face relaxing a little, confidence returning a bit — which Angela found a little off-putting, given that she herself was nothing less than on edge. “The best on my side of the Atlantic.”

 

“If you do say so yourself.”

 

“I do.” Morrison’s grin became just short of smug. “But I don’t have to.” And then he was turning expectantly to Angela, abruptly dragging her back into the conversation.

 

Angela cleared her throat with a soft cough. “Um. Yes. Yes, he is...one of the best.” Moira’s eyes were on her, keen in the way a hawk’s are. Once again, she nodded, and didn’t say a word to Angela.

 

“Oh, how very kind of you.” Angela stamped on her personal impulse to roll her eyes. The mirth left Morrison’s face, and suddenly, he looked serious, though not somber. He lifted his chin slightly to fix Moira with a curious look that Angela couldn’t quite pinpoint. A calculating air was certainly there though, and her suspicions were confirmed when he smiled with half his mouth and said, “Miss O’Deorain, let me get to the point, I’d like to bring you to New York. And if you agree I’ll make you the most famous singer not just in Europe, but in the whole world.”

 

This time Angela couldn’t resist from making a strangled noise of surprise, but it didn’t matter, because Moira’s eyes were now fixed on Morrison, demeanor shifting from humoring to something akin to actually interested. 

 

She made a sound of consideration, long nail tapping at her sharp jaw before she spoke, tone inquisitive but cool. “Hm. And have you heard me sing?”

 

Angela started to say, “Yes, of cour—“ when Morrison steamrolled over her with “No, I haven’t,” still wearing a million-dollar smile. “Like mine, your reputation precedes you, and I trust your reputation over my own taste, so...”

 

Moira’s mouth turned into a satisfied smile, like she had heard something she wanted to hear, and she barked a laugh. 

 

“I’ve never been to America.” For such a simple sentence, there was something indecipherable in her tone.

 

Morrison’s demeanor shifted as well, to something Angela herself was familiar with: the one he wore when he was determined to get his way, will of any other persons involved be damned. His tone had cooled considerably too, as he said, simply, “You will sing in the grandest theater, with the finest orchestra, in the greatest city on earth. ‘Moira O’Deorain, one night only’, maybe two — “ Moira cackled at that, a slight hint of scorning disbelief in her tone, but mostly what seemed to be genuine humor, which Angela didn’t quite know what to make of. “— and with twenty percent at the gate, it’ll be a queen’s ransom for your efforts.”

 

“I give most of my earnings towards research in the scientific field, Mr. Morrison. Money is not much of a factor in this arrangement.” Moira’s face had fallen back into blankness, tone neutral. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking. 

 

Angela chimed in, sparing a glance for Morrison before holding up a hand as if spanning a marquee. “‘Voice of a Nightingale, Heart of an Angel.’”

 

He flashed her a grin. “That’s brilliant. The press will go crazy for that story.”

 

Moira smiled the same angular smile as before — polite, but with a kind of edge to it that wasn’t perfectly clear. “That’s not a story. May I ask you something, Mr. Morrison?”

 

He nodded in assent, and her two-tone eyes brightened with a predatory intensity. “Why me?”

 

Morrison hesitated, seeming to actually give the question some thought. When he finished mulling it over, he spoke, never breaking eye contact. “People come to my show for the pleasure of being hoodwinked. For once I’d like to give them something real.”

 

They held each other’s stare for what felt like hours, Angela uncomfortably paralyzed at Morrison’s side, until an attendant of the queen stole up, pressing a hand into Miss O’Deorain’s elbow and whispering her name in request for her to follow. As Moira left, she turned over her shoulder to give Morrison a sharp, close-lipped smile and a nod before walking away with the attendant.

 

When she was gone, Angela grabbed Morrison’s arm and shook it, discomfort making her skin crawl. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Moira’s eyes were still on her halfway across the room. “ What did you just  _ do _ ? ”

 

Morrison only smiled, smug, self-satisfied, and clapped a hand to her shoulder. “We’ll see.”

 

*

 

The first appearance of Moira O’Deorain, in performance in New York City, drew nothing less than the entirety of the upper class of the city. 

 

As Morrison fussed and fretted by the edge of the curtain, pulling the heavy drapery away every now and then to stare out at the crowd and mutter about baseless worries, Angela leaned against the stone wall of the backstage between the pulleys and sandbags. “They’re still taking their seats, Jack. There’s no need to cause a huff about it. Speaking of which. Fareeha, Genji, the others? They’ve just arrived. Where shall I put them? Your box?”

 

“My box? No, no...no, that’s too visible.”

 

Angela stood up, squinting at him, unsure that she’d heard correctly. “ _Visible_ ?”

 

Morrison was talking to himself, pacing the width of the wing. “No...y’know, the acoustics are actually better in the standing room, that’s where they should be.”

 

Angela opened her mouth, spluttered, and then stopped, speechless. A stagehand tapped Morrison on the shoulder, informing him that Miss O’Deorain was ready now, and he beamed, following after him, waving dismissively over his shoulder at Angela, who shuffled awkwardly, opened her mouth, closed it, and then turned to go find the circus staff, unable to shake her disquiet.

 

That was what found her at Fareeha’s shoulder in the standing room, trying to ignore the heat of her eyes on the side of her face, as Morrison introduced the show with no less than two unintentional jabs at the performers she was surrounded by, then surrendered the stage to Moira, who, as it turned out, could sing — and even emote enough on stage to convince even Angela that perhaps she was able to feel human emotion on some kind of muted level. Not that she was paying much attention to the singing.

 

Moira’s voice and the orchestra had faded into the background as Angela tried to focus on steadying her breathing. She hesitated, hand twitching, then inched her arm, achingly slow, towards where Fareeha’s hung mere centimeters away.

 

The sharp intake of breath from Fareeha’s side of the standing room when Angela’s knuckles brushed her pinky encouraged Angela to brush their hands again, and then, haltingly, twine her fingers around Fareeha’s. The rush of adrenaline when she didn’t let go elicited a shaky breath from Angela as well, and her pulse beat in her palm against the calloused warmth of Fareeha’s. She didn’t dare look at her, but she could feel the smooth surface of Fareeha’s dress against the edge of her hand, the heartbeat thumping in her hand as well, all of the little ridges and textures in Fareeha’s fingers, and she had to take another deep inhale to keep herself from tightening her grip.

 

She tried to focus on the performance, but found she couldn’t think about anything else than the pressure in her hand. That is, until there was a tiny movement in the corner of her eye, and she looked up to see...her parents. 

 

Watching her. Whispering to each other. A kind of tight nausea Angela had almost forgotten twisted her stomach, and her hand jerked away from Fareeha’s almost robotically. 

 

Fareeha looked at her — she could tell, could feel her eyes on her even though she kept her own fixed dead ahead, above Moira’s head on the stage (only a blurry white shape from the distance of the standing room) — and then down at her hand, and then back up, and Angela could feel the hurt and the anger and the disappointment rolling off her in waves, and the nausea worsened. Then Fareeha turned, and without looking back, walked quietly and evenly out of the theater. Angela thought it was almost worse to hear her go so softly than it would be if she had left in a flurry of anger and noise. She wasn’t sure she had ever seen Fareeha that devoid of any life in the entire time she had been with the circus. 

 

Moira’s voice rose to crescendo, and the tightness behind her ribs pulsed, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from letting a sob escape.

 

*

 

Fareeha outright ignoring her over the course of the next few weeks was significantly more painful to weather than when, at the performance mere hours after Miss O’Deorain’s American debut, Fareeha had looked at her, with defiance and ferocity glossing the hint of the very same hurt and anger and frustration Angela had felt in the standing room, and it had felt like a physical punch to the sternum.

 

The frost that had solidified into a wall between them was deserved — she knew that. But it didn’t stop Angela from feeling desperate when, after weeks, Fareeha still wouldn’t even deign to speak with her. 

 

That was why she had roped the others into telling Fareeha that Morrison had left a ticket for her, to a show at the theater. In a proper box. Because even with Morrison disappearing off into the great expanse of America with Moira O’Deorain on tour — an idiotic venture that left Angela as standing ringmaster — Fareeha wouldn’t exchange a word with her.

 

Angela pushed through the revolving door, stepping out into the tiled lobby in time to hear Fareeha say, “I’m sorry, I — I believe there’s only supposed to be one—“

 

Angela cleared her throat, approaching from the side and placing a hand tentatively on the ticket stand surface next to hers. “No, um. There’s meant to be two.”

 

She looked up, catching Fareeha’s eyes for a split second and having to resist the urge to flick her gaze back down to the ticket counter. Fareeha was looking at her, expression guarded. “I...I wasn’t sure you would come if I asked,” she admitted, voice lowering.

 

Fareeha’s eyes scanned her face, as if trying to read her thoughts. She must have seen something, because a tentative smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, breaking the stoic facade that had been the only thing Angela had seen for weeks. 

 

She turned and walked towards the stairs, leaving Angela to take the tickets with a soft, “thanks,” and hurry to catch up with her. Fareeha had paused at the base of the vast marble staircase, looking up it with a kind of cautious joy in her face. 

 

Angela offered her arm, and to her delight, Fareeha took it, settling her hand in the crease of her elbow as they started up the steps to the upper boxes. “I’ve never been to the theater,” Fareeha said quietly, like she was sharing a secret. There was something spectacularly wondering in her voice. Angela turned to look at her, her breath immediately stolen by the pure emotion — barely contained excitement and joy and hope and fear — in her eyes. The expression transformed her face into something luminescent, and Angela had to swallow hard before attempting any kind of reply. 

 

Unfortunately, any words she was going to speak died on her tongue when a voice in front of her said, “Angela? Is that you?” Angela shifted slightly, biting back on a curse, looking up to see her parents, dressed in finery, on the steps slightly above where they stood. 

 

She tried to keep her face impassive as she replied, though she could feel her face twisting just slightly. “Mother. Father.”

 

Her father, a stately old gentleman, flicked his gaze to Fareeha for a split second, then back to Angela. “What are you doing here?” His tone was cold. Unpleasant.

 

She raised her chin, stepping ever so slightly to the side to make Fareeha more visible. “Mother, Father, this is Fareeha Amari.”

 

She was unsurprised at her parents’ reactions, but not in any way pleased with the way her father’s nostrils flared, and her mother paled.

 

However. When Fareeha met her eyes for a moment, shuttering, closing off again, then walked down the stairs and out the door, Angela took a deep breath, and narrowed her eyes sharply at where her parents stood, apparently unconcerned. “How dare you speak to her like that,” she managed to grit out, before whipping around and starting down the steps herself. 

 

Her mother snatched at her arm, fingers clawing into the fabric, speaking in a patronizing tone like one would use to explain a simple concept to a child. “You forget your place, Angela.”

 

Angela shook off her mother’s hand, turning to face her with a sardonic laugh, face twisting. “My place? You really know nothing about me, do you? If this is ‘my place’, I could not want anything less to do with it.”

 

She left them standing on the stairs and rotating door spinning in her wake.

 

*

 

Fareeha was in her practice clothes when she finally found her, in the first place she should have looked, sitting in the stands at the side of the circus ring. She was wrapping her hands in protective gauze, dark hair loose and sweeping against the edge of her face, bangs falling forwards tohide her eyes from view. 

 

Angela hovered at the edge of the ring, finally daring to step up to where Fareeha was perched and kneel to look up through the hair curtaining her eyes. Fareeha avoided her stare, the closed-off expression back, focused wholly on getting the final loops of the band perfectly around her palm and wrist. 

 

Angela reached out, but stopped before she actually made contact, fingertips an inch away from Fareeha’s knee. “They’re —“ her voice cracked, and she swallowed. “They’re small-minded people. They don’t understand. They don’t understand a lot of things, especially regarding me or the things that I want.”

 

Fareeha’s eyes snapped up to hers. The fire in them burned, but her voice when she spoke was soft and tired. “It’s not just them. You’ve never had someone look at you the way that your parents look at me. The way that everyone would look at...us.” Her voice hitched on the last word, and she ducked her head again, tucking the end of the band into the rest of the wraps on her wrist and pressing her lips together. 

 

Angela lowered her hand to her knee, tentatively, then fully when Fareeha didn’t flinch away. “You...I...you know I might be in...love with you?” The confession, spoken out loud, hung in the cavernous building, echoing on the dust motes and sawdust in the air. 

 

Fareeha laughed sadly, the sound grating and completely wrong in Angela’s ears, standing up and sweeping past her, jumping down into the ring. She tugged on a hanging rope in the center, weighing it in her hands, wrapping it around her palm. “Yes.”

 

Angela followed, the sound of her boots hitting sawdust ringing in the empty space, and she stepped forwards, haltingly, one step, then another. She stopped a few inches away, pausing, hand suspended over Fareeha’s hip. She swallowed, mouth dry. “And I think, maybe. You might be almost in love with me, too.”

 

Fareeha’s laugh this time was sadder, achingly so, and she turned to look Angela in the eye, briefly. Her eyes were watery, gold flecks faded by the dim lighting in the circus building. “Yes.”

 

Then, she yanked the rope twisted around her hand, releasing the weight holding it and spiraling up into the shadows of the rafters, a sandbag falling with a _thud_ to  the sawdust-coated floor. 

 

Angela strained to see any sign of her as her voice came from the darkness somewhere near the ceiling, sharper, but sounding tired. “You think it’s easy, maybe? No — I know you don’t.” A sardonic laugh, tinged with just an edge of bitterness, bounded dully off the walls. “And that’s the thing, isn’t it? I want to see you, to talk to you — but I can’t.” The last part came out in a rush of air. “And you know why. You saw it tonight.”

 

There was a creak of wood and a slight swish of air and Fareeha came flying back down in a pendulum arc that just barely missed Angela, her hair and the fabric of her clothes brushing past her skin. She whipped around just in time to see Fareeha disappear again into the trusses of the circus. 

 

“We can talk, a little, when it’s just like this, when it’s just you, and me.” A sigh, like dry leaves blowing across a stone street. “But anywhere other than here? Other than the circus, or even just other than behind closed doors?” 

 

The breath of air, of anticipation, just before she swung back, reappearing in the light of the ring, gave Angela the time to reach out, catching an arm around her waist and sending them both to the ground. They tumbled over each other, dust and wood shavings spitting into the air.

 

Fareeha’s nose was a centimeter away from her’s, and her breath washed over Angela’s lips when she laughed, breathlessly, again. “I’m not who you were meant for, Angela. It’s not what life has planned for us. I don’t really have a choice. Neither do you.”

 

And then her weight was gone, and she was spiraling back towards the roof again. Angela scrambled to her feet, fumbling for the rope and pulling on the slack when she managed to get a hold of it. 

 

Fareeha landed on her feet in front of her. She smiled, though distantly, and Angela, desperate, though she didn’t know exactly why, took that as enough to cross the two steps between them and ensnare her own hand in the rope, arm tightening around Fareeha’s waist again when it tugged and they were both pulled into the air. 

 

Fareeha was pressed close against the line of her body, legs tangling with hers, her own arm bracing against Angela’s back for support. She was so close. Angela could feel the warmth seeping through the light white dress shirt she was wearing, feel the ache in her arm from holding both of them in such an unfamiliar position, feel the scrape of the rough fibers in her palm, and the callouses left by the same strands against her spine. For a moment, they hung there, the rope creaking in the otherwise entirely silent room. 

 

Then Fareeha threw her weight backwards, pulling them back to earth.

 

And she was gone again, carving a circle in the air, spiraling around the perimeter of the ring. Angela, emboldened by adrenaline, this odd game they were playing, and, honest-to-god, the phantom sensations of Fareeha’s hands still on her body, scaled the stands to the second level, teetered on the barrier — and leaped. 

 

She crashed into Fareeha, hand coming up to grip the rope on top of Fareeha’s, and Fareeha’s arm securing around her waist in a reversal of their previous position. Breathing hard, air blowing loose strands of blonde in a maelstrom around them, Angela’s gaze flickered to Fareeha’s mouth and back up. “We could, you know,” She breathed, shattering the silence. She shuddered, her free hand balling in the excess fabric of Fareeha’s cream leotard. “We could, I don’t know, rewrite fate. We could do whatever we want. You could...have me.” The breeze whipping around them made her words seem even quieter and closer than she had spoken them.

 

“Could we?” Fareeha said, softly, and for a single, shining moment, it seemed like she might believe her. 

 

Then their feet hit the ground, and they were left standing with no space between, breathing the same air. For a few seconds, neither of them moved, frozen in place. 

 

Then Fareeha sighed through her nose, shoulders slumping forwards. 

 

Her voice was little more than a whisper, a slight rasp to her words. “You know that I...that...” she paused, hand shifting on Angela’s hipbone. “But. I — we — can’t. Our hands are tied. My hands are tied. I know you understand, but...I’m sorry.”

 

She gently reached up, slowly removing Angela’s arm from her waist, hesitating, then pressing a kiss into Angela’s cheek — so soft it was essentially just a brush of lips against skin — and walking briskly but silently out of the ring, shoulders stiff, not looking back, leaving Angela alone with a warm spot on her cheek and a now-familiar weight in her chest in the empty and darkened ring.

 

*

 

Standing outside and watching the flames engulf the circus in a hellish inferno reaching tongues of orange and red into the sky was about the most nightmarish scenario Angela could imagine. It was like the end of the world.

 

With Lena’s arm around her neck and Genji’s slung over her other shoulder, Lena in particular coughing so hard she was barely breathing, Angela stumbled away from the burning shell of her home and further into the street, shoes catching on the cobblestones, heat at her back.

 

Morrison himself — back early from his tour, though at the moment that detail seemed insignificant — barreled through the crowd, grabbing her shoulders when he saw her and propping her more firmly upright. “Did everyone get out? Is everyone okay?”

 

“I — I think so, I think —“ Angela began to count the heads standing around her, those staring in horror at the blazing spectacle above. Morrison asked something else about the animals, and she said something in return, but there was a roaring in her ears as she made her final count and she grabbed Morrison’s sleeve to stay steady, whipping around, listing to the right.

 

“Jesse, where’s Fareeha?!”

 

McCree, under the soot and dust coating his face, went grey even in the red cast of the fire, and Angela knew. She knew. And her body started to move before her mind even caught up with itself.

 

McCree met her eyes, his own widening as he realized what she was going to do, shaking his head no, but Angela just pressed her lips together and spun away.

 

Ignoring the hands that tried to grab her, she turned on her heel and ran for the flame-filled maw of the building. 

 

She heard screams behind her, the sound of someone running after her, but then she was inside the husk of blackened, towering spires of splintered foundation and surrounded by flames on all sides and it was empty. The walls were in shambles, and she could see to almost every corner of the circus, and there was no one inside. 

 

Coughing from the smoke, and looking past the sparks fluttering in her vision like a mockery of snow, she spotted a place where the brick jutted into a corner ( _back towards the living quarters, of course_ ), and took a step forwards. 

 

Then, with a great, splintering crash, she looked up to see the ceiling tear away from its trusses and fall, burning, flames eating at every part of it and dragging like comet tails behind the mass of plaster and wooden beams, down on top of her.

 

*

 

The first thing that registered was the worst pain she had ever been in in her entire life. The sharp, aching throb was concentrated in her head, though it stretched along her neck and shoulders, her arms, and surely along her ribs as well if the burning sensation on her skin as she breathed was any indication. The second was that she could feel her body outside of the sprawling ache, and someone was holding her hand. There were fingers around hers, the edge of a callous pressed into the groove of her palm. She tried to move her fingers, causing another spark of pain to jolt down her wrist, but when they twitched, she felt an answering squeeze. Her pulse jumped.

 

She took a deep breath, coughing a little at the pain the action caused both in her lungs and ribs, and tried to open her eyes. She managed to do so, though it took a few tries, blinking in the harsh white light that greeted her against the grit along the edges of her eyelids.

 

When her vision adjusted, she realized that she was in a hospital bed, and the light was streaming in through a window next to her head, and Fareeha Amari was sitting at the end of her bed, holding her hand. Fareeha was there. She was there, and she was holding her hand.

 

Fareeha’s mouth was set in a grim line, she looked like she hadn’t slept, and the streaks on her face suggested that she had been crying not long ago. 

 

She was looking right at Angela, her face drawn and taut, and when their eyes locked, she drew in a sharp breath through her teeth. 

 

Angela licked her chapped lips, trying to speak, coughing, then trying again. “You’re here.” Her voice was dry, and it hurt to talk, words scraping on the back of her throat like sand, but Angela could see Fareeha hesitate, two emotions warring in her eyes, before her face crumpled and Angela saw Fareeha cry for the first time that she had known her. 

 

But only for a second, because the next Fareeha was swooping down and her hands came up on either side of her face — minding the burns and cuts across her forehead and temples — and then her lips were on Angela’s and she forgot everything else.

 

Fareeha’s mouth was hot and soft and it didn’t matter that she couldn’t breathe particularly well yet, or that the tears sliding down Fareeha’s face were dripping onto hers and mingling with the taste of everything else, because Fareeha was kissing her and Angela couldn’t recall a moment where she had ever felt more relief. She got a hand in Fareeha’s hair, though moving still hurt, and Fareeha’s thumb brushed over her lower lip when they separated, and went back again, and Angela found that there were droplets of water sliding down her face too. 

 

And she felt fine with that. With Fareeha’s mouth against hers, and Fareeha’s weight pressing gently into her hips, Angela couldn’t have cared less about anything else that was going on in the world.

 

*

 

Digging through the remains of the Morrison Circus, Angela yanked the charred corpse of a silver lamp up from the singed bricks, mangled and melted into an odd shape, beyond repair, seeing, out of the corner of her eye, Fareeha pull a burned trapeze hoop, coated in soot, from the wreckage as well, giving Angela a rueful smile when she noticed her looking. 

 

Morrison announced his presence with a long sigh, the set of his shoulders when Angela turned to see him promising nothing but bad news. 

 

“The bank said no?” She said, more of a statement than a question, arms crossing.

 

Her waved her off, not missing the slight hint of sarcasm in her tone. “Emphatically. Repeatedly. I don’t think there’s a banker left in the country who would be willing to lend me money. Not that I blame them.” He looked around, a defeated air to his movements. His mouth tilted in a frown. “I’m really sorry to disappoint you all.”

 

Angela sighed, eyes flickering towards Fareeha. “You know, Jack,” Angela said, sitting down on the steps, disregarding the debris and grime coating them. He shifted to look at her and she smiled with just a hint of dryness, resting her chin in her palm. “When I met you, I had money, an inheritance, and an invitation to every party in town. Now all that’s gone.”

 

Morrison’s forehead creased, and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but Angela raised her hand. “Now all that’s left is new friendships, love,” she met Fareeha’s eyes, catching the tilt of her mouth, the flash of laughter in her face. “And a place where I finally seem to belong.” She counted them off on her fingers, raising her eyebrows to emphasize her words, unable to stop a small huff of amusement from escaping. “You brought joy into my life for the first time I can remember.”

 

Someone in the crowd, Angela thought it might be Lena, called “hear hear!” which was echoed by the other gathered circus members.

 

Morrison smiled wryly, hands going to his hips as he sighed again. “Well. I don’t think the bank will take joy as collateral.”

 

“Well. Maybe not. But here — I will.” Angela stood up, crossing her arms again and giving him a sharp look. “I own ten percent of the show, Jack. I took my cut weekly, knowing who I was working for.”

 

Morrison’s face was caught between a laugh and a gape, and he sputtered for a moment before waving a hand in the air. “Angela, I can’t let you gamble it all on me, I —“

 

Fareeha spoke over him. “Sure you can.” Her face split into a grin, and Angela beamed back, looking over her shoulder and then back at Morrison. 

 

“Partners.” She said. Simple. No room for argument. She held out her hand. “Fifty-fifty.”

 

Morrison’s face, slowly, like a rising curtain, spread into a slightly disbelieving smile, and after a brief moment, he clasped her hand and shook. 

 

The other members laughed, cheering. A couple whooped. Fareeha smiled brilliantly, the sun — emerging from the clouds that had blanketed the sky all day — illuminating her face and lining it in gold. 

 

Angela’s smile dipped slightly, and she let go of Morrison’s hand, one hand coming to rest on her waist, the other tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “The only thing is, I don’t know how we’re going to afford a building.”

 

But Morrison’s smile was widening, and the old calculating gleam was back in his eye. He snapped his fingers, thinking out loud. “We don’t need a building. Real estate value in Manhattan is terrible, I can get some land down by the docks for almost nothing, all we need is...a tent.”

 

He looked up, making eye contact with Angela, and raised his eyebrows in a silent question. 

 

Angela’s smile came back full-force, and she could feel her heart rate starting to pick up, a spark of adrenaline lighting. “Perfect.”

 

*

 

It  was perfect. The glow of the lights through the tent created a picturesque glow that called with inviting warmth from the outside, and on the inside, Jack Morrison led the grand reopening show of the Morrison Circus with unrivaled intensity and fervor of the kind that would lead even the least imaginitive of men to find wonder in the rings.

 

Angela watched, smile a permanent fixture now, it seemed, as the audience screamed, and laughed, and gasped. She ran a hand over the plait in her hair and found even herself getting lost in the dimly-lit magic of her circus. Her home. Her family. 

 

It was wonderful. It was glorious. 

 

Then Jack was in front of her, and he was holding out his top hat. “This is for you”, he said, and he was smiling, too in the shadows of the new, tent-suited stands. 

 

Angela knew what that meant. She took it, edge of her thumb gliding along the velvetbrim. She put it on, tugging it snug, and met Morrison’s eye, narrowing hers. “And what will  you be doing?”

 

His grin tilted in a way that promised nothing. “Spending more time with the people I care about.” He tossed her his cane, and winked. “The show must go on.”

 

Smile growing unbidden, Angela took the clap on the shoulder and ran out to the center ring, feet pounding on the packed dirt floor. The crowd was standing, swelling, roaring, thunderous applause ringing against canvas walls, screaming in delight. 

 

Fareeha landed next to her, breathless. “Hello,” she said, eyes blazing in the golden glow of the tent. Angela reached out to twist their fingers together as the entirety of the circus reached up in unison and swept into a bow. 

 

Applause in her ears, Angela slid her arms around Fareeha’s waist and kissed her, with the taste of sweat and Home on her lips and the sounds of the circus in a cacophony around them. 

 

And in that moment, the impossible seemed possible, and everything she could have ever wanted was at her fingertips, and Angela Ziegler had never felt more alive.


End file.
